Poem of My Life
by House-M.D.-Lover
Summary: The students are assigned a poetry project. Some choose to write about drugs...while others choose to write about a certain...love interest. Please Read and Review. :


"…and that'll be due on Monday" the teacher smiles at the class—we're all groaning on the inside—but we cover this up with fake smiles and by nodding our heads as if we hadn't been tuning her out for the last fifteen minutes. "Any questions?" she asks surveying the room and finally resting upon Lucas' hand that is flying in the air.

"What's it about?" naturally the teacher lets out a sigh—I assume she has already explained this, most likely in her mundane speech—she answers it despite her obvious annoyance of sounding repetitive.

"Anything, from your first love, to what you did this morning, I'm leaving this project open to whatever you want. Like many things that will be coming in this class, this project is hard"—there's a chuckle from the back corner of the room and I try hard to keep one from escaping my lips—"but I don't want you to be discouraged. Poetry is an art"—the bell rings and we fly out—"it's not something you should hate, enjoy it. Become one with your piece." I think I'm the only one that caught that last part.

"What are you going to write about?" I hear the familiar voice of my roommate behind me and I whip around to face him, but he's not talking to me.

"Oh, I don't know. What did she say? My first love? Hmm…my first love…do you think beer counts?" Lucas asks in that numb voice that is present when he's hung-over or wasted.

"Yeah, don't think you should do that." They both laugh and I quickly walk away, this isn't like me. I haven't ever felt this way before—ever. I can sit, and talk, and smile, and laugh, and joke around for hours, and yet here I go up to my room. But before I can start climbing the stairs I feel a hand on my shoulder.

"Where are you headed off to?" It's Nadia. Her maturing body is awkwardly formed in the tight school uniforms and I feel empathy for her. I know what it's like to not fit.

"Upstairs. My room." She smiles and I can see that she really wants to engage me in conversation. "You can come up, if you want to" her grin increases and she races up the stairs.

"So what are you going to write about?" I ask her as we enter my room.

"Food." She winks, and I laugh. "You?"

"I think I'm just going to BS this project." she chuckles and I can see what she's about to bring up.

"Like your poem from last year. How did it go? _The sun shines in/and the morning begins/the cock crows/but there is no snow/because it's not winter_/" She is rolling around and laughing on the other bed.

"Whatever. It was a noble try." I give in and smile—let's be honest—that poem really did suck.

"Well I'm going to start rough drafting, but you know you're always welcomed to stay" but she stands up and tells me that she'll catch me later. I attempt to start what will later be known as a "poem," but no words are coming to my mind, so I just write mindless crap.

_So now I'm in this room alone…just me and this pen…just me and no one else…and I'm going to write a poem…yep, that's what I'm going to do. It's going to be awesome too, and I'll probably be forced to share it with the class, like I always end up doing because trying to do my best is the only thing that distracts me from him. The only thing that helps me, bec-_

I stopped mid sentence and broke into writing my poem. The words seem to fall out of my pen and I have little idea what my hand is doing—other then the fact that it is moving rapidly. As I finish the last words, the door opens and I quickly shut my notebook and I wonder where the hell that entire thing came from. But I can't think about that now because the person it's about is now asking me how I'm doing.

"Good." I choke out, noticing that I am excessively sweating.

"But, you're okay, right? You've been acting a little…off these last few days" and I want to say 'that's because I'm in love with you!' but I bite my tongue.

"Yeah, I've just been stressed out."

"Well, look, if you ever want to talk about it—I'm here for you." He sits beside me and rests his hand innocently on my leg.

"Yeah, thanks." My eyes look at his, we share an awkward glance, then he removes his hand and goes back to his side of the room. Four hours pass without either of us talking. I get into my bed and he turns off the lights.

"Night."

"Night"

"Anyone want to share their pieces with the class? Anyone?" I'm scared to raise my hand, but I anxiously wait hoping someone else wants to share. That way if I do later, I know I won't be the only one who did. "Yes, Lucas. Come on up and recite your poem" he stands up and walks to the center of the room. Mockingly he clears his throat.

"_Some are red,_

_My favorite is blue_

_They are awesome_

_Because I'm always use…_

_Ing them_."

"Well…that was…nice Lucas." She has no idea what it's about. "Anyone else?" she asks and her eyes look onto my mine and I know that she knows I want to share "Anyone? Anyone at all?" finally I raise my hand into the air.

"_I stare at you across the room_

_Lost feelings I cannot share_

_I lie to myself_

_Because…_

_you are no big deal _

_you are just a faze_

_But…_

_You are so much more _

_You make me feel something _

_Something I've never felt before_

_Because…_

_you steal my heart away_

_you make me feel real special_

_I know…_

_You would never love me_

_You could never love me_

_You won't ever love me_

_Because…_

_you are right_

_you are holy_

_And I am a sinner…"_

Silence fills the room and I suddenly become terrified that this poem sucked as bad as the one I wrote last year. I frantically search for some type of reaction, there's nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I see something that both makes my heart brake and fill with joy.

Peter is starring at me and we've locked eyes—he smiles and I can see that towards the end of my poem he had started crying.

"Nicely written Jason" the teacher says as she begins to clap. Quickly people follow her lead and a few even yell out a little "Yeah!" or "That's the way we do it here" The best response is the one that happens after class, when the person who the entire thing was about comes up to me and says, "That poem touched me more then you can know." He smiles, and continues, "I think…we probably had very different people envisioned when you wrote it, and I heard it, but the message is the same. Thank you Jason"

We stand there frozen in the hallway. People are passing us, but it's only me and him there. Only we are in this moment, and for a second I dream that we are thinking the exact same thing—oh lord, I want you so badly—and who knows, maybe we are.


End file.
